


The Man Behind Glass

by shireness



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: CSSNS, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-28 13:33:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15708252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shireness/pseuds/shireness
Summary: When Emma Swan moved to Storybrooke, Maine, she never imagined she’d end up living out a real-life ghost story. But then again, does anyone really expect to find a cursed mirror, or the 300-year-old pirate trapped inside?





	The Man Behind Glass

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Captain Swan Supernatural Summer. Rated T for language.

“Well, kid,” Emma Swan says, apprehension coloring her voice, “looks like this is the place.”

The house isn’t much to look at, to say the least. Truthfully, most of this little town isn’t much to look at. But when Mary Margaret Nolan, an old friend from college, had told Emma about the opening for a counselor at her elementary school, she had jumped at the chance to finally move Henry out of the city and into a place where they can have something resembling a support system. The house Emma purchased is older, shabby-looking, but is in surprisingly good condition inside, albeit dusty and outdated. The previous owner had died some months before, leaving her assets to the town trust. Having no real need for a shabby Queen Anne home, the town had been anxious to sell it, and Emma had snapped it up at a bargain price, some of the late owner’s furnishings included. A lot of it’s probably going to end up carted off to the nearest thrift store in the back of David Nolan’s truck, but Emma’s hopeful that there might be a few pieces they can use. The more she can save on furniture, the better.

At the time of purchase, it seemed like there were almost no downsides _ \-  _ furnished, affordable, with a nice sized yard for Henry to run around in - but looking now at the crooked fence and peeling paint, Emma’s a lot more nervous.  _ God, what have I gotten myself into? _ she wonders with rising panic. No one has ever accused Emma of being handy, and by the looks of things, she may have quite a few projects on her hands.

It does help that Henry is clearly  _ thrilled _ by the new house, practically skipping up the front walk with his backpack and all the energy a five-year-old can muster. 

“This house is so _ cool _ , Mom!” he exclaims excitedly, bringing a smile to Emma’s face despite all her worries. “Can we put a play castle in the backyard? Can my room be in the tower?  _ Oh!  _ Do you think it’s  _ haunted _ ?” Frankly, Henry seems most excited about the last possibility, which Emma will take the time to be worried about later when her schedule is more open.

“Do you  _ want _ this place to be haunted, kid?” she asks, a bemused smile gracing her face.

“I don’t know, I think it’d be kind of cool,” Henry grins right back. “Didn’t you say the person who lived here was dead?”

“Yeah, but I don’t think she died in the house, Henry. Isn’t that some sort of prerequisite for a haunting?” In fact, Emma knows that the house has been empty for the past year or more, the previous owner having relocated to a care home. Henry doesn’t really need to know that though.

“I don’t know,” Henry shrugs. “We should definitely pay attention, though. Ghosts in stories always get stirred up when something in their home gets changed.”

“Alright, kid, we’ll keep our eyes and ears open,” Emma replies, trying not to chuckle at Henry’s fanciful suppositions. “Are you ready to go check out our new house? Maybe stake your claim on a room?”

Henry’s face lights up with fresh excitement at the notion, dashing up the porch steps as fast as his legs can take him, leaving his mother behind to shake her head in fond exasperation. With a final look at the shabby outside, Emma continues her way up the walk, ready to dive headfirst into this latest adventure.

———

They don’t find the mirror right away. That comes later.

The inside of the house is similarly aged and faded, but still in good condition; it just needs a thorough cleaning and some paint. Well, a ton of paint. Preferably not in colors picked out by a 5-year-old, or they’ll have a neon technicolored home.

They start with the cleaning, although even that is done in bursts. There’s a series of staff meetings ramping up to the school year that Emma’s required to go to, and executing a deep scrub of the sizable house was always destined to be a difficult undertaking with an energetic young child to watch and keep entertained.

Thankfully, though progress is slow, Emma doesn’t have to do it all herself. Mary Margaret has been an enormous help with all her Pinterest cleaning techniques, as well as conscripting her husband into tidying the yard and performing minor repairs. In addition, Emma had somehow hit it off with the school librarian, Belle, and the elegant brunette had graciously offered to lend another set of hands. Between the four of them, the layers of dirt and grime are slowly being peeled away to reveal what will be a very stately-looking house, if given enough love and hard work.

They’re tackling one of the unused guest rooms when Emma removes the dropcloth from an object propped against the wall, revealing a mirror with an ornate faux-gilt frame. The golden paint is flaking a bit, but the intricate carving is still evident on what must have been a beautiful piece in its time. Soon enough, Belle joins her at the mirror, a frown gracing her typically smiling face.

“I know, looks a little out of place in the middle of all this junk,” Emma says, but Belle just shakes her head.

“No, it’s not that,” she murmurs almost absentmindedly before correcting herself. “Well, yes, it does look out of place. But I could have  _ sworn _ I’ve seen it before. Perhaps in a book?”

They stand for a moment longer, just contemplating this unexpected antique, before Emma turns back to the rest of the room. “Well, let me know if you figure it out,” she says to Belle before turning to a dresser with a fresh dustrag.

And that’s the end of that.

———

Except it’s  _ not _ the end of that, because Belle shows up a week later in a flurry of excitement over some discovery she’s made.

“I  _ had _ seen it before!” she proclaims excitedly, dropping a hefty tome onto Emma’s nice clean(ish) kitchen table.  _ Legends of Coastal Maine, _ the cover announces in an intricate, curling font, and Emma finds her interest piqued despite her better judgement. Taking a quick peek to make sure Henry is still absorbed with his legos in the living room, Emma refocuses her attention on the pages just as Belle finds what she’s looking for.

“The legend of Killian Jones,” Belle reads off, like the title alone will explain everything. When Emma just stares back at her blankly, Belle finally continues. “It’s like Maine’s version of Bloody Mary. Legend has it that there’s a mirror - one that looks almost exactly like the one we found in your spare room, I might add - and if you stand in front of it and say his name three times, he’ll appear in the mirror.” Belle turns the book around and pushes it towards Emma so that she can see the illustration more clearly. Sure enough, the pencil drawing looks uncannily like the mirror Emma currently has propped on a table at the end of a hallway as a placeholder until she finds something more to her taste.

“So what’s his deal?” Emma asks, pushing the book back after examining its contents. “I know Bloody Mary is supposed to kill you, and so are a bunch of ghosts if you run across them. Is it the same thing with this… Jones guy?”

Belle hums speculatively, tracing her finger back down the page as she searches for the correct information. “There’s not really a clear answer on that,” she hedges after a minute’s reading. “The stories are a bit split. Some say he’s a specter of vengeance - so I assume that’s the violence or murder you were thinking of - but there’s just as many claims that he’s just a lonely shade. I suspect that the verdict would vary from telling to telling.”

“Huh.” Emma stares at the book in silence for a few minutes longer, arms crossed, before making up her mind. “I guess there’s only one thing to do, isn’t there?”

“What’s that?” 

“Well test it out, of course.” And grabbing the book, Emma marches for the stairs to test the theory, Belle nervously trailing behind her.

“I don’t know that this is a good idea, Emma…” the librarian cautions. “The whole thing gives me the creeps.” Perhaps another person might have been put off the enterprise by Belle’s words, but Emma’s not one of them. She’s already made up her mind; they’re going to try this, either prove or disprove the myth, and that’s final. Personally, Emma doesn’t think anything will happen; the whole thing seems a little far-fetched, and anyways, Emma’s attempts at playing Bloody Mary as a kid never turned into anything. But she’s always been a bold type, willing to live on the edge a little, and even if nothing happens, it’ll be worth the short adrenaline rush. Plus, Belle seems nervous about the very idea that Emma might have a haunted mirror - it’d be nice to prove to her that the mirror is safe to walk past.

Striding up to the glass, Emma looks back at her companion for clarification. “So, what do I have to do? Say the name? Pace back and forth, Room of Requirement-style? What?”

“Just say his name three times,” Belle says hesitantly. “But really, Emma, are you sure this is a good idea?”

“It’ll be  _ fine _ , Belle. See?” Turning back to the mirror, Emma quickly expels the words before her friend can make any more attempts to stop her.

“Killian Jones. Killian Jones. Killian Jones.”

A gust of cold air unexpectedly trails through the room, and it  _ almost _ creeps Emma out, but the mirror remains stubbornly empty of anything but their own reflections. After waiting a minute longer without any ghostly action, Emma turns triumphantly back to Belle, who looks almost disappointed in the outcome despite her earlier nerves.

“See? Nothing more than a silly story.”

And once again, that should be the end of it.

———

Of course, it’s not the end of the matter - something Emma comes to find out in the worst possible way.

It’s a quiet evening in the Swan household, the house’s silence only broken by the faint noises of its inhabitants preparing for bed. Henry’s already been sent off to put on his pajamas and brush his teeth, though Emma knows she’ll need to double check the latter. In the meantime, Emma’s halfway through her own routine, rinsing off her face in the bathroom sink in an old college t-shirt and boxers. Faintly, she thinks she hears something in the hallway, but easily writes it off; if it’s not Henry, padding to his room or the bathroom, it’s probably just one of the old house noises she’s slowly growing used to.

That is, until she hears the scream.

It’s unmistakably Henry, and Emma knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that his shriek was one of terror. Blood running cold in her veins, she runs out to the hallway, not even stopping to grab a makeshift weapon in her haste to find her son,  _ protect _ her son, keep him safe at all costs. Practically skidding into the hall, she expects to see intruders, or wild animals, or anything else to explain her brave boy’s scream, only to find Henry standing stock still in front of the hall mirror.

Emma almost relaxes, thinking that Henry was only startled by his reflection, before noticing:

_ There’s a man facing her son in the mirror. _

He doesn’t look particularly threatening at first glance, squatting with his arms resting on his knees, but Emma’s not taking any chances. Moving on instinct, she steps between Henry and the creature in the mirror.

“Stay the  _ hell _ away from my son!” She growls, herding Henry behind her. 

Curiously enough, the man, ghost,  _ thing _ , huffs a sigh, dropping his head as if in resignation. “As you wish,” she thinks she hears him mutter. 

“Henry, go to your room and stay there until I say it’s ok,” Emma tells her son in as calm a voice as she can muster. As Henry hesitates, peering around her legs to get a better look at the thing in the mirror, her voice gets harder. “Henry,  _ now. _ Please go to your room and close the door.”

As Henry finally scurries away, the ghost chimes in again. “I don’t mean any harm, you know,” he observes.

“I don’t want to hear it,” Emma snaps. “How  _ dare _ you terrify my son. How _ dare  _ you! What the fuck even are you? What are you doing in my house?” Halfway through her reply, Emma realizes she’s moving closer to the glass, finger pointed accusingly, but can’t bring herself to care. It’s in defense of her kid; she’ll do whatever she has to.

It doesn’t seem to have any effect on the mirror-man, though, as he stands to sweep into an old-fashioned bow. Passingly, Emma notices his clothes - a long leather duster, breeches, and a gauzy shirt, like something out of a different time. “Killian Jones, at your service, milady.”

“What, like the legend?”

Killian Jones, whatever he is, raises an inquisitive eyebrow. “Ah, so you  _ have _ heard of me, then.”

“You’re not  _ real _ ,” Emma insists. “Belle and I tried it earlier on the mirror. Nothing. It’s just a stupid urban legend.”

“Ah, but did you really  _ believe _ I was real?” Jones asks. “That’s an important part, you know - I don’t appear for people who doubt I exist. Your son, on the other hand, seems to have belief in spades, thus -” he spreads his arms wide - “my presence here before you.”

“Yeah, well, take your presence somewhere else,” Emma retorts, “or I’ll… I’ll smash the mirror!”

“You’re welcome to try,” he smiles ruefully. “But as you wish. My apologies for causing such a disturbance and startling your boy.” And with a final dramatic twirl of the hand, he’s gone.

After waiting a minute to make sure Jones doesn’t reappear, Emma rushes to Henry’s room, where the boy himself is waiting on his bed with tears in his eyes. 

“Hey, what’s wrong, kid?” Emma asks, panic again rising in her throat. “Are you alright? Are you hurt?” So help her, if her kid is hurt she’ll find a way to hurt Jones, mirror be damned.

“I’m sorry, Mama, I didn’t mean to,” Henry cuts in tearfully. “I just heard you and Miss Belle talking, and  _ I  _ wanted to try and… I didn’t  _ mean _ to!”

“It’s ok, Henry,” she soothes, gathering his small body in her arms and rocking him back and forth. “I don’t blame you for anything, kid. I’m going to protect you from the scary man, ok? You don’t have to worry about anything.”

“I don’t think he was scary,” Henry mumbles in a minor protest, eliciting a confused hum from his mother. “I screamed because I didn’t think it would work, but he wasn’t scary. I think I scared him, though.”

“Sure, Henry,” Emma placates. Henry, thankfully, is winding down, worn out by the heightened emotions of the past half hour, and doesn’t argue the point further. Thankfully, he’s already in his pajamas, making it easy for Emma to transfer him back onto the mattress and securely tuck him in. “Sleep well, kiddo.”

Emma stays for a few moments longer in the doorway, watching her son slip off into dreamland, before softly closing the door and hurrying back down the hall. The mirror, she’s careful to check, is perfectly blank once again - just an ordinary decorative piece. Even in its blank state, Emma’s reluctant to get any closer to it than she has to in the dark, the whole thing freaking her out.

Collapsing onto her bed, cell phone in hand, she quickly dials, listening to the grating ring before a groggy voice picks up.

“Belle? Something weird happened. Do you think you could come over tomorrow?”

———

The next time she faces the mirror and any… ghosts it may contain, they’re prepared.

Or at least, they think they are, because Killian Jones snorts in skeptical amusement as soon as he sees Emma and Belle’s supplies, causing the latter to jump in surprised fear.

“Is that holy water?” he asks, almost scornfully. “Put that away ladies, you’ll just get the glass wet. And trust a man trapped in a mirror - there’s nothing more annoying than streaked glass.” 

(It’s a little bit disappointing to hear, since Emma had to beg for some from the local Catholic Church, but something about his tone leaves her inclined to believe him.) 

“That crucifix also won’t do anything, darling,” he nods towards Belle. “This isn’t an exorcism; I’m not a demon. And before you even try, Milady the Blonde, the funny thing about smashing my mirror is that it just reappears elsewhere. Same with burning, or any other destruction you want to try. Odd little side effect of a curse.”

“So you are a man, then?” Emma cuts in, stopping his little ramble. “Not some ghost or demon or… something?” 

“I believe we’ve already covered that, but yes, I am a man. If I’m ever freed from my reflective prison, I’d be more than happy to show you  _ exactly _ how much of a man I am,” he ends with a flirtatious smile.

“Yeah, that’s enough of that,” Emma deadpans. “Here’s what’s going to happen - you’re going to leave my family the fuck alone, and I’m getting rid of your mirror as soon as possible. Capiche?”

“I don’t suppose you’d rather help me escape this prison?” he asks hopefully, receiving only an unamused look from Emma in return. “Aye, I know that was a long shot. Alright, Milady, I’ll behave. No contact.”

“Great. Then… begone. Or however you’re sent away.”

“As you wish.” And once again, he executes an elaborate bow and accompanying hand gesture, and the mirror is just a mirror again.

After spending a last moment watching the mirror for any movement, Emma turns back to Belle, jerking a thumb back downstairs. “I’ll go call David.”

“I’ll get a sheet to cover the frame.”

———

That should be the end of it. David will be over tomorrow afternoon to pick up the mirror and drop it off as a donation to the local secondhand store, and all traces of the supernatural will be out of Emma Swan’s house. 

But of course, life isn’t as she plans, and the matter isn’t closed like she expects, because Emma comes back into the house after dealing with some minor yard work to hear Henry chattering away upstairs. That’s not really abnormal; Henry is an imaginative child, and since he’s learned to read, he’s taken to reading picture books out loud to his stuffed animals. But when she climbs the stairs to peek in on him, he’s not in his room, but in the hallway.

In the hallway, reading to Killian Jones’ reflection.

“I speak for the trees, for the trees have no tongues…” Henry recites from his copy of  _ The Lorax _ , and Emma can’t help but take a moment to be proud of how confidently her son reads, despite the current circumstances.

“Of course they don’t have tongues, what a preposterous idea,” Jones interrupts, brows furrowed in a way that might almost be  _ cute _ if Emma wasn’t so steamed to see him at all. “And what the bloody hell is a truffula tree, anyways?”

“Hey!” Emma snaps, causing two dark heads to snap up guiltily to meet her eyes. “What is going on here?”

“Mom…” Henry starts, but Emma quickly cuts him off to turn her anger on Jones. “I thought I told you  _ specifically _ to stay away from my son!”

“It’s not his fault, Mom!” Henry quickly cuts in. “I called him, he didn’t show up on his own.”

“Yeah, well, he should have ignored it. Or left immediately.”

“I do have to answer when called by a believer, love,” Jones reasons unhelpfully. “I likely should have departed immediately, but your boy was so excited to show me his book, made-up words and all, and I just…” He cuts off suddenly, a look on his face that Emma can’t quite place.

“He’s  _ lonely _ , Mom,” Henry supplies, before stubbornly adding, “Aren’t you always telling me to make sure everyone’s included?”

“I meant the kids at school, Henry,” Emma tries to protest, but her big-hearted kid is having none of it.

“You never said that,” he insists. “Well, Killian is lonely, and I’m making sure he’s included.”

Looking at the man in question, Emma will admit that it’s hard to call him a threat. Sitting cross-legged on the ground, knees pressing against the glass in an effort to get as close as possible, Emma can’t find any trace of that confident, almost threatening swagger and attitude she’d spotted so easily in their previous interactions. He almost looks like he could be a visitor to Henry’s kindergarten show-and-tell, albeit an unusually dressed one. Even beyond the posture, there’s a look on his face that Emma can only think of as  _ vulnerable _ \- a small amount of hope in his eyes, mostly clouded by shame, hope for…  _ something _ . Emma’s not sure what. Perhaps it’s like Henry says - he’s just lonely, and hopeful they won’t send him away.

Regardless, Emma has always been a sucker for her son’s puppy eyes, and today is no exception. “Fine,” she grumbles. “But step one foot out of line, and I’m finding a way to destroy this mirror, I don’t care what you say.”

“I swear, love, pirate’s honor,” Jones replies, executing a crossing motion over his heart with a grin on his face.

“Choose a different oath. You’re not helping your case.”

“I promise, Emma,” he utters solemnly. “You’ve nothing to fear from me for your boy.” The slight panic at the moniker must show on her face, as he hurries to clarify his previous words. “Henry made the introductions earlier.”

That makes more sense. Henry’s always been a sociable kid - lord only knows where he got  _ that _ \- and likely was more than happy to tell Jones absolutely everything that came to his mind.

“Fine,” she says shortly, still somewhat put out by this turn of events. “I’ve got to go cancel on David. Start thinking about what you want for dinner, kid.”

“Thanks, Mom!” Henry pipes, suddenly cheerful again, before turning back to the mirror, back to the glass so his new friend can see all the pictures. Walking away, Emma can hear their conversation, quickly receding.

“Do you remember what part we were at?” 

“You were telling me about how the trees don’t have tongues, lad,” Jones replies, more gently and patiently than Emma would have given him credit for. Acting like that, she really doesn’t have any excuse to kick him out, one way or another.

For the time being, it looks like the legendary Killian Jones is here to stay.

———

Emma hates to admit it, but Killian Jones isn’t so bad. Sure, it’s still weird that they’ve got a resident ghost-person- _ thing _ , but Henry’s delighted to have a friend who’s always there to talk to, and Henry’s happiness outweighs a lot. Eventually, the mirror is moved to the living room, where Henry won’t have to sit on the hardwood all the time and Emma can keep an eye on him better. It feels a little bit like encouraging the whole thing, but her kid’s comfort is paramount, so the mirror is lugged down the stairs, where Henry is left to try and explain to Killian how the television works. 

Jones, in return, seems thrilled that someone wants to talk to him, though there’s still a lingering sadness evident when Emma tells them it’s time to wrap up. Killian is a bit of a puzzle, Emma’s finding; in those first ill-fated conversations, he made it clear that he was only in the mirror because of a curse, but Emma can’t truly figure out why. From his interactions with her son, she doesn’t think he was cursed for being bad, but his more rakish interactions with Emma lead her to believe it probably wasn’t for being a paragon of virtue either.

When Emma finally bites the bullet and asks, he’s quick and willing enough to reply, albeit in a sarcastic tone. “Well, you see, when a man loves a witch not very much at all…” he intones, smirking at Emma’s unimpressed look. “I’m told this is an appropriate punishment for a man who doesn’t care about anyone or anything beyond his own nose. I probably should just be glad that she didn’t follow through on some of her comments about my lack of heart - I suspect that would have been rather more… fatal.”

Despite his cavalier tone, it’s difficult to hear his words and reconcile them with the man she’s coming to know. Of course, there was a bit of a rough start - Emma was maybe a little suspicious of the man who’d gone down in legend as a spirit of vengeance, so sue her - but he’s more gentle and patient with Henry than she ever would have thought, and that carries a lot of weight in her book. He’s certainly not the uncaring, heartless man he was supposedly cursed for being, however many years ago.

“It was warranted, for certain,” he admits quietly, traces of shame coloring his voice.

“I’m sure that can’t be true,” Emma tries to excuse, but Killian just waves her words away. 

“No, I assure you, it was,” he says. “I was on a quest to avenge my brother’s death, and truly couldn’t see beyond that. It was all-encompassing. We’d stop in various ports for ale and supplies and women, but I was always moving forward, trying to exact revenge against the British Navy for taking him from me.” He sighs, suddenly sad. “Being trapped, isolated from everyone really changes your perspective on such matters. Avenging him seemed like the most important thing in the world at that time, you know? But looking back, now when it is far too late for me to accomplish what I set out to do… I think he would have been rather disappointed that I stopped living my own life.” With a sad smile and rather morose chuckle, he concludes on an almost self-deprecating note, “It seems rather ridiculous that it took such extreme measures for me to realize that, doesn’t it?”

There’s no real good answer to that, so Emma just offers a sympathetic smile. “Did you ever try to get out? Break the curse?”

“And how do you propose I do that?” he asks with impatience. “I promise you, I’ve tried just about everything. Probably bruised some ribs those first few days by repeatedly throwing myself against the glass. This mirror has been smashed no less than six times by men and women on your side, and yet I’m still here. After 250 years, I don’t have much hope of ever being free of these confines.”

“Well, that’s optimistic,” Emma comments drily. “Really? No lingering hope?”

“None worth dwelling on.”

Maybe Henry and his eternal fountain of hope and belief has finally rubbed off on Emma, but she struggles to accept such a bleak fate for the man who’s unexpectedly found his way into their lives. He’s certainly not a perfect man - from the sounds of it, he believes himself to barely be a good one - but it hurts something inside her to hear the way he’s just…  _ acceptant _ of the idea that he’ll be trapped forever.

“Well, I don’t believe that,” she declares decisively. “And if we ask Henry, he’ll just say the same thing. You don’t want to upset my kid, do you?”

That finally coaxes a small smile back on his face. “No, I most certainly would not.”

And that’s that.

———

Belle may be a little nervous about meeting Killian Jones face-to-face again, but Emma knows that her friend can’t resist a good research project, and sure enough, her curiosity overpowers her hesitancy. 

“I thought we’d go back to the original legend,” Belle explains, dropping far too many books of varying thickness and age onto Emma’s nice clean coffee table, “so I went and dug up all the books I could find that even mention it. Plus a handful on historic witchcraft. There’s another handful I requested through interlibrary loan and am expecting next week, but this should be more than enough to get us started.”

It’s an understatement, to say the least. Glancing over to the mirror, Emma can see that Killian is wide-eyed and looking vaguely overwhelmed, a feeling that she echoes, frankly. Belle French doesn’t do anything by halves, Emma’s learned in the weeks of their friendship, and this research project is obviously no exception.

“If you’re ready, this one looked particularly promising,” Belle continues, handing Emma a hefty volume, “and I’ll work my way through some of the less likely candidates, rule them out. Ok? Great!”

Meeting Killian’s eye, he offers a shrug, which Emma takes to mean as  _ there’s no real point arguing _ \- something Emma already unfortunately knows to be the case. Faced with the outcome of her own planning, and with a new unstoppable researching force in the form of a soft-spoken brunette, Emma stifles the groan of consternation bubbling in her throat and settles in to read in her favorite armchair, Killian over her shoulder attempting the same.

It’s slow going, and the whole while Emma is reminded of exactly how little she enjoyed writing research papers while in school. It doesn’t help that, while they’re armed with a specific question that needs answering, most of the books are either hopelessly vague or filled with wildly incorrect information. Killian, in particular, is put out by the repeated accusation that he’s a vengeful and murderous spirit, the furrow in his brow growing deeper with each new source and his outraged huffing becoming louder and louder.

After a particularly enthusiastic exhalation, Emma can’t help but cut in, jerking her head to the side to meet his eyes. “Jeez, you sound like you’re trying to blow the house in back there,” she grumbles, only half jokingly. 

“Well you’d be upset too, reading this drivel about yourself. I’ll have you know that even if I could somehow break free of this mirror, I’d never take my anger out on any but the woman who deserves it. And she’s long dead. Vengeful, my arse,” he snorts, before continuing petulantly, “And it doesn’t even make sense, saying that my reactions could blow an entire house down. Preposterous.”

“It’s a reference, there’s a fairy tale - you know what, never mind,” Emma replies, cutting herself off. She’s not particularly in the mood today to explain “The Three Little Pigs” to a 300-year-old pirate. “It’s been, literally, hundreds of years since you were cursed. The story is going to get a little messed up over time, like a bad game of Telephone.” As his blank, confused stare makes a reappearance, Emma impatiently waves him off. “I’ll explain it later. I’m just saying, I hear you with the frustration and the dramatic huffing, but it’s not helpful, and driving me nuts to boot. Knock it off.”

“Sorry,” Killian mutters in a tone that only sounds half sincere, his eternally proper manners deserting him in his frustration. It’s a little refreshing, if Emma’s being honest - the attitude, despite being annoying, makes him seem less like a bizarre fairy tale or ghost story, and more like an actual man - albeit one trapped in a fantastical situation.

“If you two are done arguing,” Belle cuts in, her stern teacher voice on full display and causing both culprits to look over sheepishly, “I think I found the best rendition yet.”

“Well, let’s have it then, lass,” Killian prods, some of his previous roguish face back in place. 

“The story in this one hews pretty close to what you’ve told us - that you got cursed for thinking only about yourself and your own problems, and not acknowledging that there are other people in the world that have feelings. But it goes on to say that you’ll remain cursed in the mirror until you ‘rediscover the missing piece of your soul.’”

It’s a cryptic answer, to say the least, and both Emma and Killian look at Belle expectantly, waiting for more information - or even better, an explanation. When none is forthcoming, Emma snaps, “And?”

“And that’s it, unfortunately,” Belle replies apologetically. “I’ll keep looking though. That’s more than we had before!” The last sentence is said with a bright note in her voice, clearly supposed to remind them of their meager progress as a positive thing, but neither member of her audience is much affected.

“Great,” Killian replies drolly. “That illuminates the whole thing.”

As Belle deflates at his words, Emma tosses Killian a dirty look, eyes hard with disapproval, and he at least has the decency to look guilty. “Sorry,” he mumbles, for the second time in as many minutes.

“That’s great progress, Belle,” Emma jumps to reassure. “It gives us something to go on, at least.”

“I’ll keep looking,” Belle says as if in excuse, “but if nothing else, it’s a jumping off point.”  As she speaks, she starts gathering up the books, clearly making as if to leave. “I’ve go to get going, but we’ll meet up later?” The last part may not be phrased as a question, but Belle makes it seem as such with a polite tone to her voice, even if Emma does know that their research continuing is a foregone conclusion.

“Yeah, same time next week, if that works for you,” Emma replies, moving with Belle away from the living room and back towards the front door. 

“Perfect,” the other woman beams. “I’ll see you then!” 

And then the house is once again occupied just by the Swans and their ghost.

Working her way back to the living room, Emma can’t help but offer a sarcastic smirk to the man behind the glass. “So, any ideas about what the ‘missing piece of your soul’ might be?”

“Not a single clue,” he smirks right back.

Even if they are facing an unknown and confusing path to regaining Killian’s freedom, Emma can’t help but revel in their newfound comradery. Initial mistrust and periodic arguments aside, she thinks he just might be a friend - or at least as much of one as a mythical pirate can be. And Emma Swan will do anything for her friends.

They’re going to figure this out.

———

Emma does mean to sit down with Killian in the week following to try and talk through with him what this lost thing might be, but it seems that making those plans was just tempting fate. Unexpectedly, Emma’s faced with a much more stressful week than she had planned - an incident with one of her students leaves her with plenty of paperwork and stress, the first snowfall of the year shows that maybe the old house’s heating system isn’t working  _ quite _ as well as it should, and to top it all off, Henry comes down with the flu. 

Emma always hates to see her happy-go-lucky kid feeling so under the weather, but it’s not her first rodeo. She knows the dance that goes into taking care of a sick kid, knows that he’ll come out of this just fine. Killian, on the other hand, is more concerned, especially when Emma maneuvers the half-asleep Henry onto the couch downstairs.

“He’ll be fine,” Emma tries to reassure at the sight of those furrowed brows. “It’s just the flu. He’s an awful patient, though - keeps trying to hop out of bed and go back to playing with all his toys - so I thought maybe you could keep him distracted enough to stay tucked into the couch when he wakes up.”

Killian heaves a heavy sigh, and Emma thinks she can see his relief at having a useful job to do through his worry. With Henry resting under Killian’s watchful eye, Emma’s able to head back to the kitchen to attempt to clean up the ever-present mess occupying the counter space around her sink.

An hour and a half later, fully settled into her paperwork with her glasses perched on the end of her nose, Emma is startled to suddenly hear Killian’s low and smooth voice trailing back into the kitchen. Assuming Henry must be awake, Emma goes to heat up a can of soup. Sure enough, as she brings the steaming bowl and TV tray back into the living room, Henry is wide awake, though still tucked into his blankets and apparently enthralled by whatever tales Killian is telling. 

“...and the water was the most stunning shade, blues mixed with greens and silvers,” he’s saying - an apparently child-friendly tale, Emma is relieved to hear - before stopping abruptly when he spots Emma standing in the doorway. “I think your mother is here with some broth, lad,” he says lightly, nodding in her direction as Henry squirms on the couch to see her more fully. “Why don’t you have a spot to eat, and then we can maybe watch one of your moving pictures?”

“How’re you feeling, bud?” Emma asks, moving to place the tray over her son’s legs before mouthing a  _ thank you _ in Killian’s direction. “Any better?”

“A bit,” Henry shrugs. “Killian was telling me about all the places he’s seen!”

“Was he now? Well I’ll have to ask for the recap later. Can you have a bit of chicken noodle soup for me? It’ll make you feel better, I think.”

As Henry digs into the soup, Killian catches her attention again. “He slept for about an hour,” he tells her softly. 

“Thanks, Killian. I appreciate you looking after him.”

“Any time, Swan.”

———

The anticipated meeting and knowledge swap with Belle gets rescheduled due to Henry’s illness and recovery, and with it goes Emma’s intention to sit down with Killian and attempt to brainstorm with him what the thing they’re looking for might be. It’s not that she decides it’s unimportant, or  _ forgets _ , she just… gets distracted by the multitude of other things in her life. And maybe forgets, just a little. So sue her.

Killian, however, seems to have done that brainstorming on his own, as he’s already ready with a suggestion by the time the three of them finally sit down to talk and search through even more books.

“I was thinking about our previous discovery over the past days,” he says, slowly and hesitantly, “and I had a thought about what we may be searching for.” The words are uncharacteristically uncertain, coming from the cocky pirate, leaving Emma mildly concerned - both at the prospect of what he’s about to suggest, and for the man himself.

“That’s great!” Belle replies warmly, tangibly setting the entire room more at ease with her cheerful and encouraging demeanor. “Any ideas would be helpful.”

“I don’t know if it’s right,” he cautions, and Emma starts to understand his hesitance. He’s afraid - not of their reactions, but of his own. It’s something she probably should have recognized from looking in the mirror - no joke intended - as a fear she’s seen so often in her own face: a fear of raising her hopes too high, only to be inevitably disappointed. If what Killian thinks is correct, it could set him free from hundreds of years of imprisonment, a glorious prospect; if not, he’s still back in the same situation, but with a fresh pain born of believing, even for the slightest of moments, that a brighter existence was within his grasp.

He underestimates her though, because even if this fails, Emma won’t be deterred - won’t stop trying to find a way until he actually is freed. It’s what Henry would want.

(It’s what she wants too, she’s coming to admit to herself.)

“Tell us,” she prods gently, wearing the same smile she uses to set Henry at ease when he’s nervous about admitting to something, especially when it’s something he shouldn’t have done in the first place. Endearingly, it has the same effect on the 300 year old pirate, the tension in his shoulders visibly relaxing as he finally begins talking.

“You both know I was a pirate,” he starts, waiting to see Emma and Belle nod an affirmative before continuing. “Well, for a pirate - or any man of the sea - a ship is more than just some cobbled together pieces of wood, more than just a convenient way to get around. It’s… it’s  _ everything _ . His home, his livelihood…” pausing for dramatic effect, he focuses his gaze on Emma before solemnly concluding, “Some might even call it a piece of his soul.”

“And you think your ship is the missing piece,” Belle finishes, knowingly. It seems to Emma that Killian is leaving something out, but brushes the thought aside. It’s not really any of her business.

Killian nods in response. “Her name was the Jolly Roger, and even though she was smaller than many of the ships other captains commanded, I thought she was beautiful from the moment I first set eyes on her, with her elegant lines built for speed,” he remembers wistfully. Quickly, though, his soft smile collapses in on itself to something more sorrowful. “Even if that is the mysterious piece we’re searching for, however, I doubt it will be of any use. It’s been so long, I’d be surprised if the old girl is even still in existence…”

“Hey, it’s something to start with,” Emma interrupts, cutting off his train of doubt. “That’s the least we can do, right? Try and follow that lead, see where it goes?”

“I suppose so,” Killian concedes, seemingly reluctantly, but Emma has spent far too much time in his company, and can see the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“I’ll pull any information I can find about your ship and piracy in this area this week,” Belle says, jotting down the information on a yellow post-it with a weird smile on her face. Emma can’t quite place it - it’s more than an uncomplicated happiness, but not quite smug. Emma almost wants to call it a  _ knowing _ smile, though knowing what, she has no idea. Before she gets a chance to ask, however, Belle is already straightening and briskly clapping her hands together in a gesture of excitement, an indicator that they’re about to dive into a major research session. “On that note, shall we begin?”

They shall.

———

Killian can’t really be considered a babysitter - even if he was able to move beyond his mirror, Emma doubts he’d be able to handle a phone in the event of an emergency - but he’s still an enormous help with Henry, all the same. In the years since Henry’s birth, Emma’s had to act as a sort of superwoman - simultaneously balancing the demands of her job with keeping her son happy and healthy and entertained, all while trying to keep their apartments from dissolving into trash heaps and desperately trying to hold her sanity and sense of self together. 

Even confined as he is, Killian somehow manages to alleviate some of that load, happily keeping Henry distracted and watching over the boy as he plays. Henry, as it turns out, loves attempting to teach his new friend everything about the twenty-first century, giggling and laughing uproariously at Killian’s confused faces (some of them exaggerated for Henry’s benefit, Emma suspects, but she’s not telling). He loves hearing Killian’s stories even more than that, and it seems like the ancient pirate enjoys the telling just as much, turning each tale into a vast drama of thrilling adventure that leaves his young audience enraptured.

(Emma notices that he’s careful to keep his stories tame, choosing ones without the violence and booze and women she’s sure must have been a significant part of such a life, or at the very least downplaying and glossing over the details. She appreciates it, even if she’s never openly said it; there’s no need for Henry to learn about such things this young.)

It’s a pretty tableau they make, Emma thinks as she watches from the doorway, almost Rockwell-esque - the young boy, a book of fairytales propped across his lap, and the brotherly (or possibly even  _ paternal _ figure) over his shoulder, helping him sound out the words in a learning ritual repeated every day across America. The only interruption to ruin the facade is that prohibitive pane of glass, preventing boy and man from interacting in more concrete and physical ways.

“Are you going to stand there all day lurking, Swan, or will you join us?” Killian calls, a teasing note evident in his tone. Emma may roll her eyes in response, but she willingly crosses the room to join them, ignoring Killian’s cocky smirk in favor of focusing on Henry’s sweet giggles at the exchange.

“What are we reading tonight, my little Giggle Bug?” she asks, before sweeping down to attack Henry’s head with kisses just to hear those giggles continue even longer.

“The Princess and the Frog!” he happily chirps back when Emma finally ceases her kiss attack to allow her kid a moment to catch his breath. “The princess looks like you, Mama!”

Sure enough, when Emma looks at the illustration, the princess’ head is covered in blonde curls - the feature she’s learned is most important in identification to a kindergartener. “She sure does,” Emma agrees affectionately. “Looks like she’s kissing that frog.”

“She’s going to turn him back into a prince,” Henry explains. “He just needed someone to kiss him, you see, and she said she would because he saved her ball and she’s so nice.”

“What do you think, Swan?” Killian cuts in. Somehow, Emma gets the impression that, were he free from his glass confines, he’d be elbowing her in the side. “Do you think a kiss from a pretty blonde would be enough to break my curse?” Mirth twinkles in his eyes, but beneath that, she can sense just a little bit of hope. It seems the ruthless captain still believes in fairy tales and all that comes with them.

“Please,” she scoffs, fighting a smile all the while. “You couldn’t handle it. It’d smudge the glass, give you a conniption.”

“Perhaps  _ you’re _ the one who couldn’t handle it, love,” he taunts, playfully tapping a finger against his lips.

Emma looks at him appraisingly for one more moment, mouth fixed in an amused smile, before moving decisively, never one to back down from a dare. As Killian stares back in shock and confusion, she gestures impatiently. “Well come on then! Mosey up, or whatever. I can’t really kiss you through the glass if you’re not puckered up on the other side.”

Though he looks flustered - honestly, what did he expect from that teasing? - Killian finally moves to press his lips against the glass, eyes closed as if waiting for a real kiss on real flesh. Taking a final deep breath, Emma moves to do the same, and rising on her toes, presses her lips to the glass where Killian’s own are reflected.

Immediately, she knows it’s not going to work. Not only is there no fairytale-esque flash of rainbow light, but she can still feel the glass under her lips, eternal and unyielding. It reminds her faintly of dares made in middle school to make out with her own hand - that same lack of response, same feeling of  _ why the fuck am I doing this _ , just colder. 

Pulling away, it’s impossible to miss the disappointment on Killian’s face, though he quickly masks it by furiously wiping at the mirror with his soft linen undershirt, flashing Emma a glimpse of a trim midsection and treasure trail in the process.

“Do me a favor, Swan,” he says, brows furrowed in a valiant attempt at feigning deep concentration. “Go fetch that blue liquid you use.”

Emma snorts in amusement. “You mean the Windex?”

“Yes, the…  _ Windex _ ,” he replies with evident disdain for the newfangled product name. “Quickly, now, you know any impediment to my clear viewing will ‘drive me nuts’, as you and the lad so charmingly say.”

“Fine, Captain Neatfreak,” Emma concedes. It’s the least she can do in the face of his disappointment. “C’mon, Henry, let’s go hunt down some Windex before Killian blows a gasket.”

“Actually, Swan,” Killian calls, “I was hoping the lad might be amenable to reading another story aloud?”

Henry looks up eagerly, and even if Emma wasn’t looking to make amends, she’d be lost. “Of course he can.”

After all, as she said before - after the temporary defeat they just suffered, if hearing another fairytale from her kid will make Killian feel better, it’s the least she can do.

———

Despite Emma and Killian’s continued distraction - even though Henry is feeling better, the flu bug having run its course, he’s still rather lethargic and low on energy and is stuck in bed, having developed a nasty cough to boot - Belle arrives to continue their research bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

“I’ve got excellent news!” she chirps, all smiles. Not even a delayed response seems to faze her, grin only growing wider in the face of Emma’s tiredness and the deep look of concern on Killian’s face. “Don’t you want to know what I found?”

“Of course, lass,” Killian quickly jumps in. No one particularly relishes the thought of dimming Belle’s cheerful enthusiasm. “What have you discovered now?”

“Well, I was finally able to hunt down what happened to your ship,” she beams. “As it turns out, after your mysterious and untimely disappearance - that’s how it was described in the book, by the way,” she laughs, “a man named William Smee took over as captain  — ”

“ _ Smee? _ ” Killian interjects, leaving Emma to stifle her laugh at the look of horror on his face. “That buffoon?”

“Well, the history books don’t say anything about him being a buffoon,” Belle explains patiently, “but yes, William Smee became the new captain, renaming the ship the  _ Siren’s Call _ — ”

“Gods, this just gets worse and worse,” Killian mutters, not quite under his breath. “Bad enough luck the first time.” Emma makes a mental note to ask him about that later. Killian, seeing the brunette librarian’s exasperated look at his continued interruptions, sheepishly apologizes. “Sorry, milady. Please continue.”

With a final fond glare at the outraged pirate, Belle picks up her train of thought again. “ _ As I was saying _ , it was renamed the  _ Siren’s Call _ , and actually managed to survive to the current day, mostly intact. She’s been turned into a piracy museum, and a very popular one at that.”

That perks him back up well enough. “My ship? She’s still on the water?”

Belle nods, her initial enthusiasm returning. “Majestically so. Now, for practical reasons, we can’t really bring you to the ship, so I brought the ship to you!”

Emma eyes Belle skeptically. “Unless I’ve missed something, I don’t see a massive pirate ship in my backyard. I’m pretty sure Henry would have been hollering about that by now.”

“Oh, of course not, I can’t actually bring the whole ship here,” Belle amends. “But, as it happens, the local historical society funded a major restoration about ten years ago, and a few of the overworn or fragile parts were replaced in an effort to make the ship properly seaworthy again, and the originals were put into storage at the historical society’s archives. And I  _ might _ have made up a little fib about teaching a unit about historical piracy and its economic effect on the British Empire, just so I could reasonably borrow…  _ this! _ ” As she finishes on that enthusiastic punctuation, Belle produces a small item from her purse with a flourish.

To Emma, it doesn’t really look like much; just a small, worn and stained piece of wood, clearly carved to serve some purpose, albeit none she can easily recognize. It must mean something to Killian, though, as his face fills with a soft awe, fingers brushing the glass reverently in a desperate attempt to get that little bit closer.

“A piece of the rigging,” he all but breathes. “I can’t believe…” His wonder is so great that, while usually verbose in the extreme, he can’t even finish his sentence, trailing off into nothing more than a soft smile.

“Exactly.” Belle beams, obviously pleased with herself. Emma silently holds out a hand in request, and Belle hands her the small wooden piece in response. It’s in good condition for its age, though stained and worn from decades exposed to sun and salt and water and beginning to crack. Rubbing a thumb along the smooth, worn wood, Emma looks up to meet Belle’s eyes.

“And you’re sure this is from his ship? There’s no possibility it’s a case of mixed-up labeling or storage or something?” Part of the asking is to make sure they’re not trying this for nothing without any chance of their desired outcome, but the other part is in search of an excuse. There’s a significant chance that this won’t work; Emma’s not kidding herself on that front. That doesn’t stop her from searching for a reason this might fail that’s not pure dumb luck.

But Belle shakes her head confidently, negating that possibility. “Nearly none. It was only recently removed, and they’re a very meticulous organization, despite their small size.”

“Ok then. Figured I’d check.” Strangely nervous as she turns to face Killian, who is patiently waiting in the mirror for his companions to finish their debate, Emma takes a deep breath. “Ready?”

Killian nods solemnly, fingers still stroking the glass absentmindedly and eyes focused on the small piece of wood in her hand.

With a final determined nod, Emma raises her hand with the rigging to face the mirror. “Here goes nothing, then.”

Pressing hand and artifact against the glass, at first Emma feels nothing. The glass is just as cold and unforgiving as ever, now tinged even colder with the chill of disappointment. But as Emma presses harder, in a last ditch effort at refusing to relinquish hope, she feels… something. There’s a give to the surface that wasn’t there before - not enough to break through yet, but enough to feel that there is an effect, contrary to all logic and physics.

“I think something’s happening,” she mutters, barely loud enough for Killian to hear, as she pushes even harder against the glass, brows furrowed and mouth frowning in concentration. Sure enough, she can physically  _ see _ her hand start to sink into the glass, the surface bending around the pressure like the surface of a trampoline. Glancing up quickly, she can see the way Killian’s eyes are blown wide in shock before he moves his hand to receive hers.

Suddenly, the glass gives way around her hand, not quite disappearing but reducing to nothing more than a film, and her hand with its treasure encased falls to meet Killian’s own. Briefly, there’s a muted sense of skin meeting skin, of callused yet tender fingertips just brushing the inside of her wrist, before there’s a sucking sensation around the wood piece in her palm. Without any warning, Emma’s hand is once again expelled from the mirror, only her quick sense of balance saving her from being sent sprawling on the floor. 

She doesn’t even have the time to start contemplating everything that just happened before Belle is trying to get her attention, amazement coloring her voice.

“Emma,  _ look _ !” she all but screeches, leaving Emma with the urge to issue a reminder about indoor voices. “It didn’t work the way we expected, but  _ look! _ ”

At first, as Emma focuses on the mirror, she doesn’t notice anything different. Sure, Killian looks a little shell-shocked, like his entire world has been jarred, but Emma’s a little freaked out by whatever experience they just shared as well, so honestly, that’s warranted and not especially surprising. However, as she looks closer, Belle’s exclamations are explained; inexplicably, Killian is holding the piece of his ship in his hand.

“How even…” Emma starts, but there’s really no point in asking. She’s unlikely to get an answer that makes any amount of sense anyway. 

“ _ Swan _ ,” Killian says, voice just a little bit broken. “Look at this, this is…  _ Swan _ .” He’s clearly in a state of shock and awe over this development - Emma thinks she even spots tears glistening in his eyes. She supposes that it stands to reason - this is the closest he’s gotten to freedom in literal years, and yet without true success. This seems to be an emotional reaction even beyond that, however, and Emma’s itching to ask him about it, and try to comfort her friend in any way.

Belle must sense that he needs a moment to collect himself, as she smiles knowingly and moves back towards the door. “I’ve procured an old spell book that I left in the car,” she explains in a weak excuse. “I thought there might be a few potions in there that might be worth a try - let me go grab that from my car really quick.”

Emma turns to fully face the mirror as Belle makes her exit, attempting to meet Killian’s eyes. “Hey, are you okay?” she asks, fully aware of the concerned tone of her voice.

“Aye, Swan,” he smiles weakly, wiping at his eyes. There’s a moment of quiet, filled only with the sounds of their breathing. Emma can’t help but notice the way he handles the weathered piece of wood almost reverently, running his thumb back and forth across the surface like that piece of the rigging, at first glance a humble and utilitarian object, is the greatest treasure imaginable.

“The Jolly wasn’t always mine, you know,” he finally says, smiling in a way that almost seems wistful, choosing his words carefully in starts and stops as he continues. “It was a proper Navy ship once - the Jewel of the Realm she was named in those days. And my brother… my brother was her captain, the best captain imaginable. I’d have followed him anywhere, even if he hadn’t raised me. And after he was gone…” Killian finally meets her eye again, glancing up from his hands with a smile that’s turned sad. “Well, after he was gone, it felt like that ship was all I had left of him. Even after I renamed her, even after I threw off the red coat to become a pirate… it felt like part of him was still alive on that ship. Attempting to avenge him is what got me into this mess, and I lost my last connection to him in the process. Having this little insignificant piece of the Jolly… it may seem small to you, like we didn’t achieve much,” he concludes, more confident now in his words, “but you’ve given me a little piece of my brother back that I’ve been missing for years.  _ Thank you _ ,” he finishes earnestly, the tears making a reappearance.

It’s not really Emma’s territory. She’s not great at accepting thanks, especially when she doesn’t think she’s done anything to warrant it. “I don’t know that you should be thanking me,” she mutters, eyes downcast. “It’s not like I did it on purpose, whatever just happened just kind of… happened.”

“Still, Swan,” he insists, “whether you intended it or not, you’ve given me a great gift. Take the thanks - they’re freely and sincerely given.”

“Well, I guess you’re welcome, then.”

Killian grins, and Emma can almost physically feel the emotional cloud lift from the room. “Now tell me, before the lovely Miss French comes back - do I look a fright?”

Emma can’t help it - she laughs, despite their previous seriousness. “Don’t worry, you still look devilishly handsome, or whatever you call it.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” he winks - a move executed more with his eyebrows as both eyes close - just in time for the sound of the front door opening to trail back into the living room. 

If he’s at all upset with the way things have gone today, Killian doesn’t show it, and Emma breathes a sigh of relief at that.

———

Emma hates to admit it, but as the weeks go on, the initial flurry of research starts to trickle off. It’s not that they’re falling into resignation - or, at the very least, Emma isn’t - but as it turns out, without knowing what this mysterious  _ thing _ they’re looking for is, their little group is left just to read the same books over and over again, trying and failing to wring another drop of information out of the same tired words. In the immediate aftermath of what Emma’s started thinking of as the “rigging incident”, Belle had tried a number of spells and potions, but none had made any difference beyond annoying Killian with the various murky liquids trickling down the front of his glass. As the weeks stretch on, it seems like Killian is settling into resignation more than anyone else, albeit a content resignation. After years with naught but his own company and the occasional ill-intentioned summoner, Emma supposes this is likely as good a life as he ever expected to have after his drastic change in circumstances.

There’s a routine they’ve sort of settled into; come down, say good morning to Killian (who now comes and goes as he pleases, rarely choosing the solitude of the blank mirror over her or Henry’s company) and eat a little breakfast on the couch before school. After school, Killian happily keeps Henry entertained as Emma deals with whatever work she’s had to bring home before dinner - once again on the couch so their resident pirate doesn’t feel left out (something Henry is very concerned about). After Henry is put to bed, Emma usually takes some time to sort through her day with Killian, relishing the chance to talk and vent with an adult after dealing with teenagers and her own kid all day. Honestly, it’s becoming a highlight of her day; Killian is a fantastic listener, and Emma feels a kinship with him like she’s never experienced before, even with her closest friends. 

This Saturday is like any other - Emma and Henry both sleep in a little later than usual, before Emma goes to try and figure out something they can eat for breakfast. Henry’s in the other room with Killian, as per usual, and Emma smiles at the thought of her kid attempting to explain the finer points of cartoon plots. As she tries to pry open a can of biscuits, she faintly hears Henry cough, but doesn’t pay much attention to it. The cough showed up not long after his flu bug disappeared; it’s just a little leftover cold, one they’ve gotten used to.

What Emma  _ hasn’t _ gotten used to, however, is the note of panic in Killian’s voice as he calls for her. It’s so out of character that it strikes Emma dumb for a moment, and he’s already calling her name again as she rushes into the living room.

“What’s wrong - what happened?” she demands, attempting to analyze the situation. Despite the relatively early hour, Henry looks absolutely sapped of energy already, and Emma’s blood runs cold in her veins at the realization that the only thing that would leave Killian calling for her in a panic is Henry being at risk somehow. “What’s wrong with Henry?”

“He went into one of those coughing fits,” Killian jumps to explain, eyes a little wild as Emma meets his gaze in the mirror, “but after that passed… it was like he couldn’t catch his breath, Swan, just this horrible gasping.”

“I’m tired, Mama,” Henry cuts in with a mumble, as if to underscore that something’s wrong.

“Is he going to be okay, Emma?” Killian asks, painfully earnest.

“Yeah,” she says, voice uncertain, worry almost certainly splashed across her face. “But I think we need to go to the doctor. Right now.”

———

It has to be one of the longest mornings of her life, carrying Henry to urgent care and anxiously waiting for the doctor to tell her _what’s_ _wrong_ _with her kid_.

Even if it’s only early afternoon by the time she carries a sleeping Henry back into the house and straight up to his bed, Emma’s exhausted. Intense emotion and stress will do that to a person. 

Coming back down the stairs, she’s ready to fix herself a cup of hot chocolate and maybe crash for an hour or two before Killian’s voice halts her in her tracks. He only calls her name - just a way to get her attention, really - but Emma is drawn up short by the sheer desperation in his voice. Changing her course towards his mirror, she notes that he doesn’t look much better - hair mussed from hands running through it and a permanent frown on his face, looking wildly out of place. It would have been easy enough for him to retreat from the mirror - Emma knows from previous conversations that time goes marginally faster for him when he’s not summoned in the mirror - but he’s clearly spent the whole time pacing back and forth in the glass, waiting to hear the news as soon as they returned. Truly, Emma’s touched by the gesture and obvious concern as a symbol of exactly how much he’s come to care for their little family.

“ _ Please _ tell me he’s alright, Swan,” Killian all but begs when he looks up from his frenetic pacing. “He’s so young, so…  _ please _ tell me he’s going to be okay.”

“He’s going to be okay,” Emma assures with a weak smile. At her words, Killian practically collapses in relief, tension visibly lifting from his frame. “He’s got pneumonia, so he’s going to be sick for a little while longer, but the doctor gave him some antibiotics - some medicine,” she clarifies. “But yeah, he’s going to be fine. Hopefully he’ll start feeling better in the next few days.”

“And these…  _ antibiotics _ , they’ll cure him?”

“I think it’s more that they’ll help him fight off the little disease bugs, but yeah, basically. And they hooked him up to an oxygen tank at the doctor’s for a little bit, which was kinda scary at the time, but he perked up right away. Honestly, it was like baby’s first drug high, he was so energized all of a sudden.”

“I was so scared, Swan,” Killian admits, resting his hand against the glass. “Henry’s such a bright little boy, and when he was sitting there, gasping for breath, I was absolutely terrified for him.”

“I know you were,” Emma replies softly, moving to press her own hand against his through the glass. “I was too.”

“I don’t want you to feel like I’m overstepping, Swan, but I care about that boy. He’s…  _ everything _ . I was lonely for so many years, trapped in this prison, and meeting you both… It was the first bright spot in my existence in a very long time.  _ Both _ of you,” he emphasizes. “Seeing him this morning, seeing your bald-faced worry, I was forced to think of what life would be like without either of you in it again, and it scared me half to death.”

“That’s not overstepping at all,” she reassures him. “That’s just called caring. You care about us.”

Killian nods solemnly at her words, as if in a vow. “Yes. I care.”

There’s been a warmth to the glass between their palms for as long as they’ve been pressed together, but Emma had largely disregarded it, far more focused on the words of the very concerned pirate looking back at her. But with his final words, in a cinematically dramatic moment, the glass suddenly becomes almost too hot to touch, before Killian’s hand sinks right through, palms suddenly meeting skin to skin without their customary barrier. In another circumstance, Emma might laugh at the look of almost comic shock on Killian’s face, but in the moment she can only stare with her own matching expression.

“Is that…?” Killian begins before trailing off, clearly struggling to believe such a thing could be possible for him after years of dreaming. Emma only nods in response, but rotates her hand to grasp his and attempt to draw him the rest of the way through the glass.

Miraculously, it works. Emma steps slowly, disbelievingly backwards, lifting her other hand to meet his, until eventually he swings a leg over the gilded frame and into freedom.

“I can’t believe it,” he murmurs, looking around in astonishment, clutching her hands like a lifeline the whole while. In a way, perhaps it is; Emma’s the first human contact he’s had in hundreds of years. “I’m here? With you and… and the rest of the world? Truthfully?”

“You’re really here,” Emma smiles, her own vow. Then, as all the events of the preceding minutes sink in, she bursts into uncontrollable laughter, forced to release Killian’s hands to brace her heaving frame on her knees.

“I don’t understand what’s so funny, Swan,” he protests, though a small smile plays across his lips.

“You finally broke your curse because you  _ cared _ , Killian!” she tries to explain through the laughter, before realizing that did nothing to clear the matter up. “It’s frickin’  _ Beauty and the Beast _ , how did I not notice that? Let alone  _ Belle _ ?” Killian chuckles along good-naturedly, but it’s easy to see that he’s still confused. There’s a lot she and Henry are going to have to catch him up on; Emma forgets that sometimes. “It’s a fairy tale. And a movie - one of Henry’s moving pictures. I’ll get him to show you. Trust me, this will be hilarious when you get it.”

“I’ll trust you on that,” he replies with a smile. He does that a lot, Emma realizes - both the trust and the smile.

Killian may claim that Emma and Henry are the ones to brighten his world, but Emma has a strong suspicion he’ll do the same for them.

———

Henry is positively thrilled at the breaking of Killian’s curse, only stopped from attack-hugging the man by Emma’s stern warnings not to get him sick.

(“He’s 300 years old, Henry, and hasn’t had all the shots we have. You could very literally kill him with your love.”)

Killian seems a little overwhelmed by everything, but that’s to be expected, she supposes. The last time he saw real daylight, not just through a reflection, the main method of transportation was horseback and electricity hadn’t been discovered yet. She can give him a little slack if he’s looking at everything suspiciously.

When Emma and Henry moved to Storybrooke, Maine, she never imagined she’d end up living out a real-life ghost story. But then again, there’s not really a how-to manual for living with a 300 year old pirate. What they learn along the way is that he makes an excellent roommate - clean and courteous and always willing to help out with Henry or whatever else she needs. There’d been a debate about procuring him his own place, but for the moment, this is just  _ easier _ \- no needing to find him money no one has to spare or sorting out the intricacies of figuring out some fake papers. Belle is able to get him a job at the local library, where he develops a reputation as a courteous and professional member of the staff and great with the children’s storytimes, if universally considered to be a little eccentric. 

He even looks the part too, these days, courtesy of a shopping spree at the local Target and thrift stores, even if Killian is only talked down from continuing to wear his long leather duster by the purchase of a second hand leather jacket in a more recent style. Sometimes, Emma almost forgets that Killian is a man out of time with the way he stands so normally in her kitchen, pouring out a bowl of cereal in stockinged feet. Of course, he’ll then refer to the computer as the “information box” or something else so obviously out of the ordinary, and the illusion is ruined.

She’s not sure she’d want him to fully acclimate, anyway. There’s something adorable about his little confused pout, and  _ especially _ the way that Henry’s taken the pirate under his proverbial wing, trying to explain the world to him and introducing Killian to particular highlights (the Reese’s peanut butter cups are a particular hit). There’s something to be said, too, for his manners, courtly and chivalrous in ways Emma’s not accustomed to but welcomes all the same.

Honestly, she thinks he might be attempting to court her - to borrow a phrase - even if he hasn’t definitively declared it. Emma certainly wouldn’t be opposed if he did so; there’s a connection between them, one that’s existed for longer than she likes to admit. Living together, it’s hard to ignore the tender looks sent her way - not that Emma wants to. In fact, she might be guilty of sending a few his way in return. Still, he never makes a move, never seeks anything else, and by the time he figures out how to use the toaster oven, Emma is tired of excusing it as him still trying to acclimate to the modern world.

“Are you ever going to  _ do _ anything about that flirting?” she finally demands one night, sitting on the couch watching television with Killian after Henry’s gone to bed.

Killian looks flabbergasted at her outburst. “Excuse me?”

“You send me doe-eyed looks, like, all the time, not to mention the comments. Are you ever actually going to follow through, or…?”

“I didn’t think you wanted me to,” he admits, flushing brilliantly scarlet as he ducks his head to scratch behind an ear. “I didn’t want to overstep my boundaries.”

“You didn’t think I wanted you to? Jesus, Killian, I never said that! Honestly, I’ve been trying to give it right back — ”

“ — well I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, a gentleman never — ”

But Emma never finds out what a gentleman never does, as she finally drags his lips down to hers.

It’s not much of a kiss at first, Killian’s shock turning it into two sets of lips ferociously pressing against one another rather than a proper, romantic gesture. It’s not much different from kissing the glass, really; warmer, softer, but similarly unresponsive. After a prolonged moment, Emma draws back, meeting his stupefied expression with her own fierce-eyed stare. When Killian doesn’t react - except perhaps to become more slack-jawed - Emma nearly takes her hands away from his face and resigns herself to the embarrassment of having unsuccessfully made a move on her roommate. Before she can move, however, he’s back, warm lips moving against hers, fiercely at first before settling into something more tender. It’s a good first kiss, a perfect one really, and Emma looks forward to many more. 

As they finally break apart to regain independent use of their lungs,  Emma rests her forehead against Killian’s. “That was…” she begins, breathlessly.

“Fantastic,” Killian finishes, before breaking into a shit-eating grin. “Really, Swan, you’re so much better at that without the glass in the way.”

“Shut up,” Emma retorts, but she smiles even as she smacks his chest with the back of her hand. Really, the man’s got a point. 

“Make me,” he shoots right back, smirk permanently affixed to his face.

And really, can anyone blame her for doing exactly that? 

(As it turns out, 300 year old legendary pirates make  _ excellent  _ kissers.)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! @allons-y-to-hogwarts-713 made some fantastic art for this fic - go check it out on tumblr and giver her some love!
> 
> Fic also posted on tumblr - I'm @shireness-says. Come say hi.
> 
> Super thanks, as ever, to my fantastic beta, @snidgetsafan. She makes all this better - love ya, boo.
> 
> This fic is a direct result of some brainstorming on the CSSNS Discord, so thanks to @kymbersmith-90 and @branlovesouat for helping get this off the ground. I hope it lived up to the original idea!
> 
> If you liked this, consider leaving kudos, comments, and/or compliments! I love hearing from you guys.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I hope you liked it!


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